Intoxicated
by Inkblot9
Summary: An impromptu late-night party at Marlinspike Hall leaves Captain Haddock even more inebriated than usual, and he's got a thing or two to tell his best friend. The question is, is he aware of what he's saying, and will he remember any of it in the morning? (Edited slightly 4/25/13)


The houseguests had departed, the alcohol had been put away, and the parlor had been returned to order, more or less.

That night's affair had not been purposefully thought out by any of the permanent residents of Marlinspike Hall. A certain insurance mogul had taken it upon himself to introduce "a little gaiety" into "this old estate" for no particular reason other than his overbearing personality, and before there was time to protest, the château was filled to maximum capacity with an entourage of unfamiliar pretentious rich divas who would have given Signora Bianca Castafiore a run for her money…and had she happened to be anywhere in the country, it was more than likely that she would have attended as well.

Needless to say, nothing could be done to stop the onslaught of festivity, and undeniably shameless amounts of drinking, dancing, and related pursuits followed from the majority of the people involved. Midnight came and went, and little by little the crowd dispersed until only three—two men and a little dog—remained in the room.

"_Grâce à Dieu._ I'm glad that's all over." Tintin sighed and slumped onto a couch that had seen better days, especially before tonight. The exhaustion he had felt after numerous life-threatening exploits in years past seemed to pale in comparison to this.

"Whassamatta with ya, laddie? I th-th-thought it was _exshellent_ fun." Captain Haddock, sprawled across the same sofa, was vastly more inebriated than what was considered normal, even for him. He slurred his words, stretching his limbs haphazardly in the younger man's general direction.

"Not at first, you didn't. You called _Monsieur_ Wagg a freshwater pirate and a two-timing troglodyte, among other things, and then you said you'd ring up the Thompsons and take out a restraining order right then and there." The youthful reporter rolled his eyes. His seemingly everlasting patience had all but disintegrated completely over the past few hours, for even he had been coerced into a few glasses along the course of the evening. Not by the Captain—he knew him well enough by this point in time to even bother asking any more—but by a portion of the company of fancy-dress partygoers whose names he had not learned amidst the chaos. The original giddiness upon tasting the drink had long wasted away into nothing more than intense aggravation and an equally potent migraine. He was deeply regretting giving in to the pressure of the crowd, which had seemed like the easy solution at the time.

Snowy lay passed out on the carpet; apparently he had indulged a bit much as well.

"'N then what happ'n'?" Haddock questioned, as if Tintin was recounting one of his earliest adventures as opposed to something that had happened to the retired sailor himself mere hours before.

"You got _drunk_, Captain."

An uncomfortable silence followed that frustrated statement, for a few moments at least.

The Captain exhaled loudly, and then subsequently began to laugh goofily to himself. "C'mere," he mumbled. "C-c'mere, Quiffy…" Rather, though, it was he who moved over, lopsidedly scooting across the cushions until his left side was tightly pressed against Tintin's right. He unceremoniously draped an arm across the boy's shoulders.

"Q-_quiffy_–?! Captain…" Tintin shook his head. "…you're drunk. You're _so_ drunk. If you have any sense left in you, you'll go up to bed right now and sleep it off. I've got a right mind to do the same."

"'Fraid I can't do that at the moment…"

"And why ever not?" Tintin never wanted to become exasperated with his best friend, but he was quickly running out of other options. He squirmed in his seat, desperate to break free of Haddock's grasp and unwilling to admit he was simultaneously enjoying the closeness on some level. Some other time, perhaps, they could allow themselves to partake in such intimacy, but not right now. They both desperately needed to rest. That much was painfully apparent to the journalist, if not his companion.

"I-I…I gots shomethin' t' tell ya…that I prob'ly shoulda…long time since."

_Crumbs, what is it now?_ Tintin hoped that whatever this supposedly pressing issue was, it was nothing more than the whiskey talking and it would either be easily resolved or forgotten completely the next day. He made an excruciating effort to be somewhat polite. Really, all he wanted to do was grab Snowy and go to bed. "_Oui, capitaine? Qu'est-ce que c'est?_"

Haddock made an attempt to sit himself up, and he looked Tintin straight on. He swallowed once or twice before announcing, "I-I…I love you."

Whatever Tintin had been expecting to come out of the Captain's mouth, this was not even close. His grey-blue eyes widened and his jaw hung open halfway, caught somewhere between shock, confusion, and plain disbelief. "I—you—_what_?!"

He could not possibly be aware of what he was saying. There could be no other reasonable explanation, though Tintin's logical mind was performing veritable backflips looking for one—no easy task in the circumstances. Yet, he was finding a depth of sincerity and emotion in Haddock's eyes that he could not remember ever seeing there before.

"'S true…there nev'r been 'nyone else l-l…like ya." To further cement his point, the older man leaned in further and planted a sloppy, drunken kiss on one freckle-spattered cheek. His bristly black beard brushed against Tintin's skin, quickening the boy's heartbeat and sending sharp chills down his spine. He sat there in surprise for a moment before wrestling with Haddock's heavy, limp arms and his own tiredness enough to stand himself up.

"Captain Archibald Haddock, you are drunk off your ass," he declared with a stone-cold glare, knowing in the back of his mind that he was not exactly sober either. "I don't know what you're trying to do, but I am no longer going to be a party to your whiskey-sodden antics!"

Tintin leaned over, feeling his back crack slightly as he did so, and scooped his unconscious terrier off the rug. Snowy kicked a few times in response, but he did not awaken. His master took a few fatigued steps toward the stairs.

"Wha', all that 'n you're j-j-just gonna…leave me here? Blisterin'…t-t-typhoons…"

Tintin turned his head. Though the Captain was surely delirious, and in that moment he looked almost as pathetic as he had aboard the _Karaboudjan_ all those years ago, he knew he had moved far beyond that in that time. Appearances were not everything, and one night of intoxication was not going to change that, not permanently.

Haddock smiled sheepishly through his stupor. He meant no ill will.

"No," the young man replied. "I'm not leaving. Not until I help this old salt up to his bed." He extended his hand, and his friend took it.

xxx

It had been a struggle, but somehow both Tintin and Haddock had made it into their respective bedrooms. However, where the Captain had fallen asleep immediately and his coarse snoring could be heard faintly down the hallway, Tintin still lay awake, staring up at nothing and puzzling over the events of the past hour as best he could with his still-throbbing head. He _should_ have been asleep ages ago, if the effort it had taken to simply undress was any indication, but his mind clearly had different ideas than his body.

"I love you," Haddock had said. "I love you," said the brutish, fallible sea captain whom the reporter called his closest friend.

But he was more than that, Tintin knew. Where others would only see a reprehensible drunkard, he found a kind and generous soul, a loyal friend who would stand by his side throughout the most inane of adventures.

This man had encouraged him in doubt and protected him in danger.

This man had invited him to live in his ancestral home with him.

This man had been ready and willing to sacrifice his own life for him, high in the mountains of Tibet…

…because he _loved_ him? That was _love_?

The word itself seemed foreign, stranger than any faraway country that Tintin had ever traversed. He couldn't recall anyone ever speaking it to him before, save perhaps his father, whom he still missed desperately.

And what about him? Did he feel love for the Captain? Was that what had kept them together all these years? Was the friendship that he valued so deeply more than just a simple friendship? Did he—did _they_—

_Nonsense,_ Tintin said to himself. _Calm down. He was drunk, and I had a hangover. I _still_ have a hangover._ A pang of shame gripped him upon acknowledging the fact.

_Neither of us was in a right state to be thinking of such things,_ he concluded.

Snowy, curled in Tintin's arms, whined in his sleep. His master's hand gently stroked his furry white back. Tintin knew he loved Snowy, but he loved him the way a man loved a dog. He had never experienced, nor even fully considered, how a man could love a woman, let alone how a man could love another man.

He still could not allow himself to believe that someone could love _him_.

_After all,_ he thought as he faded into sleep at last, grateful that he still had the presence of mind to perform effective meditation, _what would a man like him ever want with a boy like me?_

_I am Tintin…_

_…nothing._

xxx

It was almost eleven o'clock by the time Tintin got out of bed, though he was usually the first one awake in the house. He stumbled through his morning routine without his usual enthusiasm, still feeling shaken though his headache had ebbed. As he buttoned his bell-bottomed russet jeans and then slipped his favorite blue sweater on over his white collared shirt, he came to the full realization that he would be facing the Captain again within the next couple of hours, and the conversation was bound to be embarrassing for the both of them.

He sighed, glancing at himself in the mirror. He looked somewhat presentable, at least; his clothes were clean and tidy, and his ginger hair was as neatly styled as ever. The droopy, bleary eyes and grim expression were quite unlike him, though. The previous night had left him drained in more ways than one.

_Can't be helped,_ he reasoned. _What's done is done. All I can do is move forward…that is, until the Professor invents time travel._

He chuckled to himself at the thought; if anyone on Earth ever accomplished that feat, it would surely be Calculus.

Snowy yapped at his heels, as perky as ever. Tintin knelt down to tousle the fur on the plucky dog's head.

"You're looking well, old boy," he commented, amused. "Atrocious as it is, your drunkenness never lasts, eh? At least there's one of us who won't have any permanent consequences from all of this." Snowy wagged his stump of a tail and barked happily, pleased with the attention.

Suddenly, the dog's ears perked up; he raised his head and dashed off, likely to chase the resident Siamese cat yet again. Tintin stood up, quietly laughing, and then he walked in his own direction.

Once he descended the stairs, Tintin spotted Haddock leaning on the wall of the foyer, sipping a cup of tea. At least, he thought it was tea. It looked like tea.

_It had _better_ be tea, the youth grumbled silently._

"Ahoy, landlubber!" the Captain called, noticing him. "You're up bright and early, eh?"

"_Bonjour, capitaine,_" Tintin replied calmly as he strode up to him. "You can't very well blame me for sleeping in. Last night was rather"—he searched for a word—"_ridiculous_."

"Aye, if the fact that I don't even remember half of it says anything." Haddock snorted. "One of these days I'll get him back, Wagg, that Bashi-bazouk, that ectoplasm, that poltroon, that—"

"I'm sure he means well, Captain," the reporter reasoned, though he had to admit to himself that the man had been truly helpful to them on perhaps one occasion out of what had to be hundreds.

Then he remembered that there were more important issues to be addressed. His heart began to thump anxiously, but he reminded himself that it had always been his job, his _duty_, to seek the truth—and, really, that was all he was doing here. "I'm not surprised you don't remember much," he began tentatively. "You were really drunk."

"Eh, that figures. Ol' Cuthbert actually gave me this stuff to ease the headache." Haddock raised the mug in his hand. "It's been working well enough. But I'll admit I'm worried he slipped some of those blasted pills of his in there with the tea." He took another sip and then noticed Tintin's distressed expression over the rim of his cup. "Er…that is…Ugh, blistering barnacles, I'm sorry, lad. I know it's not fair of me to go all out like that."

"Do you have any idea what you said to me last night?"

Haddock shook his head remorsefully. "Not a clue, but—"

Tintin was not finished. "When will you stop?" he cried. "You promised me the day we met that you'd never drink again, and that lasted a few hours at best. I can't count how many times I've had to slap sense into you since then. And ever since the Professor's tablets wore off, you've been at it _again_! I thought you would have learned once you saw what the drink can do—and _has_ done—to you and to plenty of others! I thought you would have learned once you saw how absurdly _worried_ I get over you! If you really do love me, Captain, I would hope you'd love me a little more than your precious whiskey!"

He squeezed his eyes shut and took a few deep breaths to recompose himself, and then he heard a loud _smash_. Looking down, he saw both mug and tea scattering across the floor; looking up, he saw his friend's shocked expression. Tintin was uncomprehending for a moment, and then he realized what he had just inadvertently revealed.

The former sailor was flabbergasted, his hands shaking. "I…is _that_ what I told you last night?"

The boy nodded his head, averting his gaze, unable to face the Captain straight on. _Tintin, you idiot!_ he cursed himself silently. _What have you done? He had no idea what he was saying, it was all because of the alcohol, and now you've gone and made everything awkward, and—_

Haddock laughed nervously. "Well," he said, "I suppose it was bound to come out sooner or later."

Now it was again Tintin's turn to gape in surprise. "You mean…you actually—"

"Yes," the Captain confessed, "yes, I do; I love you, Tintin, with everything I've got. I didn't want to tell you, because I didn't want to change what we already had. What we had, it—it was perfect, lad. I never needed anything else. I never needed any romance or sex or frills. All I ever needed…all I ever wanted…was you. And you were always there, just being _you_; you were my best friend, and, barnacles, it was _perfect_."

The skilled journalist was currently finding it close to impossible to form words. "I—"

"And now…ah, confound it—" Haddock held his face in one hand. "What did I do? I went and got drunk again, and now you know, and it's all…"

"Captain."

Pale blue eyes peeked out from between weathered fingers.

"It's all right, Captain. I forgive you. No man is perfect; I know I'm not. To be completely honest, even I got a tad bit tipsy last night." The boy's face reddened a few shades.

"Not you!"

"Yes, me," Tintin admitted, with light amusement toward Haddock's horrified tone. "And for what it's worth, I'm not planning to walk out on you anytime soon, if that's what you're thinking. I respect you for telling me the truth—even if it took a glass or two to coax it out of you. I've got nowhere to go, anyway. I'm sure somebody else is living in my old flat on Labrador Road by now."

The Captain sighed quietly with relief and lowered his hand back to his side.

"I just don't understand," the young man mumbled. Too late he realized he had been thinking out loud.

"What's that, laddie?"

"How could _you_…" Tintin gulped. His heart was threatening to break free of its prison within his chest. "…love someone like me?"

Haddock didn't know whether to laugh or cry. It appeared that he was doing both at once. "Ten thousand thundering typhoons! Are you serious? What could I possibly _not_ love about you…?" His voice cracked; he choked on his own breath.

"Well, there's…I mean, I'm…I'm just a boy, really. And you…" _Oh, _Mon Dieu_, I sound absurd. I ought to just shut up while I still can._

Haddock lifted his hand to take another gulp of tea, and then remembered mid-motion what had happened to his cup. "You may be young, but you're an adult all the same, and you've clearly got far more guts—not to mention _maturity_—than a man who's supposed to be fully-grown and then some," he said.

"That'd be me," he added when silence persisted.

"Ah." What Tintin wanted to tell him was somewhere along the lines of _you've got plenty of guts, don't put yourself down like that, appearances are nothing, you're worth far more than what's easily visible on the surface, I don't deserve a friend like you…_ but his vocabulary appeared to have taken a spontaneous extended vacation.

"D'you really want to know the whole story? I suppose I have no reason not to tell you everything…"

The boy reporter knew he could never refuse a good story.

"C'mon, let's sit down and talk. We'd look rather silly if anyone found us just standing here. That, and I think my legs are about to fall off, anyway."

"Shouldn't we sweep this up first?" Tintin pointed to the mess of tea and porcelain on the floor before them. "Nestor does so much for us already, and even he looked frazzled last night."

Haddock smiled and shook his head. "Always the Boy Scout," he whispered quietly.

Louder, he added, "All right. I'll go fetch a broom."

xxx

The cleanup had not taken long, and now both men were seated together on the same couch where this had all began. Snowy and the cat had run through the room a couple of times, but now all was calm.

"Captain," Tintin prompted quietly, "you were saying…? If you don't really want to tell me, that's fine," he added hastily. "I wouldn't want to be nosy—"

"Tintin, when you burst through my porthole on the _Karaboudjan_, I was terrified, I'll admit," the Captain began, and his companion had to smile.

"But before long, the terror turned to wonder, and then to hope. You could be my easy ticket out of the mess I'd gotten myself into."

_Don't interrupt him,_ Tintin willed himself. He had found that the strategies he used for journalism could also apply to a great deal more. _Learn the facts first, and then evaluate the whole story._

"As our journey continued, though, I came to realize, even in my drunken haze, that you were more than that. It had been years since I had something worth more than my next bottle, and now, even more than some_thing_, I had some_body_. A guide, a helping hand, a _friend_—and a much better friend than that coelacanth Allan could ever be, I might add.

"Eventually, we made it back home, and I figured that with my luck I'd never see you again. Then I was sent off to captain the _Aurora_ mission, and by thunder, there you were! Call it twist of fate, call it destiny, call it pure coincidence, but for whatever reason, we met again, and from then on I knew we were truly friends, that somehow you saw something in this wretched soul of mine. You don't know how much that meant to me, and still _does_ mean to me, that for the first time I could remember, there was someone who truly cared about me, and who I cared about too.

"It's thanks to you I reclaimed my family estate. You saved my life and others' time and again. Nothing would ever stand in the way of your bravery, your determination, your _heart_, and no matter how many times I said I was sick of adventures, I couldn't kid myself into thinking that if you happened to have another one up your sleeve, I wouldn't be the first to volunteer!

"I guess what I'm trying to say is…you changed my life, Tintin, and I don't ever want to go back. I love everything about you: your intellect, your kindness, your wit, your courage, your smile…You're everything I'd wished I could be. I would give anything I own for you without hesitation.

"I fulfill every sea-dog cliché there is. I've been enchanted by many a siren. But none of them were a damn thing like you. And you do mean a hell of a lot more to me than the whiskey! More intoxicating than the drink is what I see in you, and more painful than the hangover is knowing I've let you down. My dear Tintin, I do believe I am completely, hopelessly in love with you, and you can take that however you will."

Tintin was dumbstruck. Haddock's words had taken his mind back down the paths of their every adventure over the years, from Morocco to the Moon and back again, and he was finding there was more to what they had than even he, he whose very career was built upon perception, had previously seen.

He had tolerated this man's faults, embraced his quirks, and admired his strengths.

He had brought this man up from rock bottom—more than once.

He had done, and would continue to do, anything he could for this man…

…because he _loved_ him. That was _love_.

He might have begun his life of travel to escape his identity, to conceal himself from any form of emotion whatsoever, but he now knew he had moved far beyond that in that time.

_I may still be Tintin,_ he thought, _but I'm no longer nothing…and it's all because of him. I am in love with him, and I never knew—I never knew what to call it, but that's what this is…what it's become._

"Captain," he breathed, "I…I—"

"Ah, blistering barnacles, I've been rambling on forever, eh? It's a wonder I haven't bored you to death, or driven you away back to Syldavia or wherever else. I can't stand how sappy I get sometimes." Haddock's fingers twitched. He wanted a drink, or a cigar, or—

"Captain, I could listen to you speak for ages. And I will never leave you."

The twinge in Haddock's hands ceased, shifting its locale to his heartbeat.

"You've done so much for me. You mean so much to me. You help me see that I'm _more_ than just a boy. You've been such a wonderful friend to me; you're the dearest friend I've ever had, and…" Tintin took a deep breath, preparing himself for the weight of his words. "…_Je t'aime, mon cher._ I love you."

Everything made sense now. The reporter-sleuth felt as if the greatest mystery he had ever tangled with had been finally solved. This time, though, the reward was far greater than a spot in the newspaper, a medal from the San Theodoros military, or Red Rackham's treasure.

Tintin leaned forward slowly, and then he gently, chastely, kissed the Captain's cheek, once again feeling lightly tickled by the barbs of his beard. This perfect mirror-image of the previous night's gesture sealed the unspoken pact. Two men: one older, one younger; one blunt, one subtle; one skeptical, one idealistic; both imperfect, but both together, the whole much greater than the sum of its parts.

"And I agree with what you said earlier," Tintin added after a moment, seating himself back down. "I don't want much of anything to change between us, really. I don't need anything more. What we have right now…it's perfect."

He sighed contentedly. The night before was not the first time either of them had been haplessly intoxicated, and it would not be the last. Nor was it the only time their lives had seemingly been thrown off-kilter only to be pieced back together, stronger than ever.

Their greatest adventure was surely yet to come.


End file.
